


Show Me What I'm Looking For

by bitscrawford



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-25
Updated: 2015-08-25
Packaged: 2018-04-17 06:51:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4656840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bitscrawford/pseuds/bitscrawford
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The surviving delinquents are sitting around the dropship, knees pulled to their chests, heads buried between their knees. Clarke can’t blame them for looking so weary, really. They’re too young to have just fought a battle, too young to know war so personally, too young to live with the fact that they just finished incinerating hundreds of grounders, hundreds of <i>people</i>.</p><p>Death is everywhere on the ground; it’s unavoidable. It’s remarkable that so many of them had survived for this long.</p><div class="center">
  <p>--</p>
</div>Canon compliant through Season 1, but Monty never went missing, the Mountain Men never showed up, and the Ark never came down.
            </blockquote>





	Show Me What I'm Looking For

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from the Carolina Liar song of the same name.
> 
> I spent all summer working on this one and it honestly feels like I'm sending my baby off to preschool for the first time. 
> 
> Unbeta'd, so all mistakes and typos are my own.

Everything hurts. 

The surviving delinquents are sitting around the dropship, knees pulled to their chests, heads buried between their knees. Clarke can’t blame them for looking so weary, really. They’re too young to have just fought a battle, too young to know war so personally, too young to live with the fact that they just finished incinerating hundreds of grounders, hundreds of _people_.

Death is everywhere on the ground; it’s unavoidable. It’s remarkable that so many of them had survived for this long. 

(She has to fight to keep from thinking of the dead buried just outside their walls, of Atom and Charlotte and Wells. Oh, God, _Wells_.)

She does a mental check of her body, flexing her muscles and bending her joints, but she can’t seem to find any substantial injuries. There’s no visible bleeding, no broken bones, no giant contusions or lacerations. She’s managed to escape with minor cuts and bruises. There’s an ache in her chest, though, and no amount of deep breathing will make it disappear. All she can see whenever she closes her eyes is Finn’s face as she’d retreated into the dropship without him, Bellamy fighting off Tristan and putting his life on the line for the rest of the kids knowing full-well that he would probably burn with the rest of them. 

It’s guilt.

Bellamy had been an asshole for so long, spouting that _whatever the hell we want_ bullshit and trading food for wristbands, but they’d somehow managed to foster a sense of mutual respect. Hell, they made pretty great co-leaders and she’d come to care about him; they were, oddly enough, friends. 

And then there was Finn. Finn, who’d had a girlfriend on the Ark and kept it a secret, who broke her heart, who said he was in love with her. 

And she’d killed them both. 

Feeling a sob start to form in her chest and creep its way up her throat, she barely manages to remain upright, her hand holding onto the dropship lever so tightly that her knuckles turn white. Keeping her eyes downcast, her blonde hair sticking to her sweaty neck, she starts to climb the ladder to the second level. She can’t break down in front of anyone. She’s their leader - their _only_ leader now that Bellamy’s gone - and they look to her for strength. If she’s going to cry, she has to do it when she’s alone. Nobody can know just how badly she’s hurting.

But then Miller calls out to her, tells her that some of their people have been injured during the chaos and require her medical expertise. He fails to mention the spear-shaped wound in his shoulder, but she knows he needs as much care as the rest of them, even if he refuses to admit it. She sighs. 

At least now she has something to keep herself busy.

\-- 

They wait an hour or so to make sure it’s safe before opening the dropship door. As much as she wants to curl up in a ball in a corner somewhere and cry her eyes out, she knows she should keep it together and be the first to go outside.

So she does. 

She has to swallow hard to get past the lump that forms in her throat when she sees the aftermath of the blast, the charred skeletons and the weapons that lie beside them. As much as it sickens her to think of something other than all the people they’ve - _she’s_ \- just killed, she makes a mental note to collect all the axes and swords after they’ve cooled down enough to be handled safely. 

Stepping onto the ground that had once been their camp makes her stomach turn. Her boot crunches against a set of ribs and she clenches her jaw. Closing her eyes, she allows herself to take a moment - barely anything - to compose herself, exhaling slowly in an effort to make her pulse stop pounding so hard that she feels it behind her eyes. 

They have so much work to do. Everything has been decimated. There are no more walls, no more tents, no smokehouse - nothing but a gaping, black hole remains. 

Her eyes scan the woods, looking for any sign that Bellamy and Finn have gotten away. Seeing none and stepping out further, her foot colliding with a skull, she feels bile rise in her throat and swallows it down as best as she can. 

“C’mon - we have to start cleaning up. Don’t go for the weapons yet; the metal is probably too hot. Be careful what you touch. Just - make a pile of the - ” She doesn’t even know what to call them. “The remains. Put them on the edge of camp. I’ll figure out what to do with them later.” Should they bury them? Would it be an insult to the members of the Hundred who had died to put the grounders who had tried to kill them in the same graveyard? It feels wrong to leave them all in an unmarked grave somewhere in the woods. They have no way of telling which skeletons are Bellamy’s and Finn’s and, God, they deserve graves. They deserve marked graves and flowers and a proper funeral. She scrubs a hand over her face, smearing blood on her cheeks. 

One issue at a time. As soon as they get the ground cleared, she’ll send some of the uninjured to go hunting. She’ll get a fire going and send Jasper with some of the younger kids to get water. Monty will have to make more moonshine, too.

She watches as everyone files out of the dropship slowly, eyes wide and movements slow as they take in the same sight that’s making Clarke so nauseous. A few of the younger kids have tear tracks running down their dirty faces, making the guilt in her chest grow even heavier, even more tangible. 

They’re just kids.

There’s no tent for her to retreat to this time, nowhere she can really go for solace. Looking down, she can see the blood staining her hands. They’re shaking, too. She’d used up most of the wire and thread they’d managed to scavenge on knife wounds that had needed stitches. She’d applied pressure to bleeding arrow wounds, using moonshine to disinfect everything, muttering quiet apologies and telling them they would be okay when they cried out. 

After this, would _any_ of them be okay? Could they? 

Seeing Monty, she tells him she’s heading to the river to clean up. He tries to insist that she take someone with her, but she just tilts her head at him and quirks an eyebrow, trying so hard to act like nothing’s wrong. “Monty,” she starts, her voice very nearly catching. She clears her throat before continuing. “Most, if not all, of the grounders are dead. Who’s going to attack me?” He doesn’t say anything, his teeth worrying into his bottom lip. She reaches out to touch his arm but, seeing the blood on her hands, thinks better of it and lets her hand drop. “I’ll be okay. I’ll take a knife in case anything happens.”

\-- 

The river doesn’t make her feel any better.

She scrubs her hands until they’re red and the skin is raw, but she knows that she’ll never be able to truly wash the blood off of them. She can’t help but think that this must have been what Bellamy felt like after the Culling. The thought of him has bile rising hot and fast in her throat and instead of swallowing it down this time, she lets it come, bends at the waist and retches. There’s nothing in her stomach - she can’t remember the last time she’d eaten - and the acid burns her throat when it comes up. 

Wiping a hand across her mouth, she finally lets herself cry. There’s nobody here to hear her, nobody she has to be strong for, nobody to see just how broken she’s become. 

She cries until she’s exhausted, splashing cold water on her face and washing off the blood she’d smeared there. Her face is probably red and swollen, but she knows she has to return to camp soon. 

Looking out at the water, she remembers the first time they’d been here, how dumbfounded she’d been by the presence of a river unmarked on the map, how Jasper and Monty and Octavia and Finn had been so excited, how Octavia had taken off her clothes and jumped into the water. They’d all been so naive back then and, God, the memory of the smiles that had graced their faces makes her want to cry all over again. She can’t even remember the last time she’d laughed like that.

\-- 

They all have to sleep in the dropship for a week before they manage to build makeshift shelters. All the blankets and tents had been burned, but a return expedition to the bunker where Clarke and Bellamy had found the guns proved fruitful - there were more blankets and even a few tarps. They have to share, a handful of people in a single tent, but it’s better than nothing. The dropship is significantly less crowded and as the injuries heal, Clarke finds herself with more time on her hands. She can’t rest yet, though. They still have to rebuild the smokehouse and the walls - their next project - but they’re getting somewhere.

She has to keep reminding herself to acknowledge progress when it comes instead of focusing on all the things they still have to do.

There’s still no sign of Bellamy or Finn, though, and she feels her hope dissipating more and more with each day.

(She’d known they were dead from the moment she’d closed the dropship door, but she still hasn’t come to terms with it.)

\-- 

She’s exhausted, can’t even remember the last time she’d slept through the night without waking up gasping Bellamy’s or Finn’s name. There are dark circles under her eyes. Monty and a slowly-healing Raven check on her regularly, constantly telling her she should rest, that they can take care of things for a few hours.

They mean well, but they’re starting to get on her nerves.

She can’t sleep knowing there are people who need her. 

Bellamy would have understood.

\-- 

She catches some of the younger kids playing with grounder weapons, swinging axes around like they’re toys and throwing spears at trees. One of them nearly pierces Clarke’s shoulder and it probably would have if she hadn’t had the good sense to duck.

“These,” she starts, wrenching the weapons from their hands. Maybe she’s doing it a little more forcefully than necessary, but seeing a 13-year-old girl wielding the ax of a dead man shakes her to her core. She nicks her palm on one of the axes, but she barely feels it, doesn’t even notice the blood pooling in her hand and staining the spears already in her grip. “Are not toys. They’re _weapons_. You could kill someone.”

“Um, yeah,” argues a boy who can’t be older than 14. “That’s kind of the point.” He looks to the others for some sort of validation and they all laugh. 

“If I see you with one of these again, you’ll be on laundry for two weeks.” It’s starting to get colder and laundry is by far the most hated of all the chores they’ve started sharing. The water’s cooler than the air and more often than not, clean clothes are handed out by shivering teenagers with wrinkled fingertips. 

They huff and complain but they eventually agree, rolling their eyes like the typical pre-teens they are. 

And then she hears it.

The older boy - the ringleader of their little group, she assumes - has the audacity to whisper _Bellamy would have let us use them_ under his breath. 

She steps into his space, seeing red, her grip tightening around the handle of an ax. “What did you just say?”

His eyes widen and it makes something clench in her gut, the fact that a child is afraid of her. She swallows hard, staring right at his face and daring him to say something. When he doesn’t, she turns to walk away, satisfied that she’s gotten her point across. She’s only a few steps away when she hears it again, louder this time though far less confident. 

“Bellamy would have let us use them.” 

She drops the stack of weapons, not even flinching when she hears them hit the ground. Before she can process what she’s doing, she’s closing the distance between her and this kid - she remembers, all of a sudden, that his name is Liam - her fingers bunching in the fabric of his shirt and lifting slightly, pulling him up onto his tiptoes and staining it with her blood. Her voice is colder than she’s ever heard it, but her face is red hot and angry. “Bellamy’s not here. Do you hear me? He’s not here, and he’s not coming back.”

“Because you killed him.” It’s the 13-year-old girl this time and Clarke very nearly stops breathing.

“Clarke.” It’s Jasper, his hand on her shoulder, grip tight as he tries to pull her back from whatever cliff she’s about to go tumbling over. With effort, she manages to let go of Liam, taking a couple steps back. They’re all staring at her like they’ve never seen her before and, God, she _really_ can’t deal with this right now. So she turns on her heel and retreats to her tent, catching her breath and sitting on her hands so she won’t start punching things. 

She’ll apologize later.

\-- 

Clarke’s in the dropship, taking inventory of the medical supplies they have left and making a note of what they should gather more of soon. They’re good on moonshine for a little while, but they’re in desperate need of thread for stitches and seaweed to help fight off infection. She’ll send some people out to look for more later.

This is what her life is now: making lists and plans, handing out tasks and making sure the camp runs as smoothly as possible. 

There had been a brief time when people were reluctant to listen to her, when they looked at her and only saw the fact that she’d closed the dropship door on Bellamy and Finn, that she was directly responsible for their deaths. They thought they were next. 

Slowly, she’s managed to regain their trust. It hasn’t been easy and she’s had to dole out quite a few apologies for outbursts when she’d gotten too stressed or when people accused her (rightfully so) of murdering Bellamy and Finn, but they’re slowly getting back to normal. 

Well. As normal as they can be without those two.

Hearing loud voices and lots of movement outside, she grips her knife and runs, ready for anything and everything that could have come their way. She thought they’d have more time before the grounders reappeared, but she’s been wrong about a lot of things before.

What she sees makes her breath catch, her eyes going wide and her knife falling from her tightly clenched fist. 

Bellamy and Finn. 

They’re filthy and clearly exhausted. Finn favors his left leg and Bellamy has blood on his clothes and his hands, but they’re there. They’re _alive_. 

She feels tears starting to gather in her eyes, the corners of her lips daring to quirk upward for the first time since the attack. Pinching her thigh to make sure she isn’t dreaming before taking off, she runs straight toward them. She collides hard and fast with Bellamy, her arms wrapping around him. She buries her face in his neck, inhaling his familiar scent - sweat and dirt and blood and _boy_ \- and letting tears fall hot and wet on his skin. “I thought you were dead,” she manages, her voice thick and rough. 

He finally returns the hug, rubbing her back. “You should be so lucky,” he murmurs into her hair and she can _hear_ the smirk in his voice. 

She pulls away, swallowing and punching his arm. Hard. “Don’t you ever disappear on me like that again.” He winces but chuckles a little under his breath, nodding. 

She turns toward Finn, hugging him just as hard, her eyes fluttering shut. “I’m glad you’re back.” She pulls back and sniffs, wiping her eyes. It’s obvious he wants to offer her some grand proclamation, something that would no doubt be romantic, his eyes soft as they bore into hers, but she speaks before he can. “Where were you?”

They tell everyone all about how they’d run away from the dropship and a couple of grounders, getting lost in the woods in an effort to evade them. They’d killed them eventually, picking them off one by one when they were distracted. It took them a while to find food and water. They’d run farther than they’d initially thought, but, after what was entirely too long a period of time, they’d managed to make it back to what was left of their camp. 

Clarke feels the exhaustion set in, some of the relief that she isn’t the only leader anymore, that Bellamy’s there, that he’s going to help her allows the muscles in her shoulders to relax. Her eyelids feel heavy, but she can’t go to sleep just yet. 

“Thank God you’re back,” Raven murmurs, arms crossed over her chest. “Clarke was starting to turn all emo robot on us. I can’t remember the last time I saw her sleep or eat an actual meal. Look at those eye bags, man.” The corners of her lips quirk upward as she moves to poke at Clarke’s face. She’s clearly teasing, despite the fact that she’s telling the truth, so Clarke just sidesteps her hand and rolls her eyes, leading Finn back to the dropship so she can look at his injured knee. 

She misses the way Bellamy gives her a once over, a crinkle forming in his brow. 

Somehow, he has the capacity to be worried about _her_ , as if he hadn’t just spent weeks alone in the woods with Finn.

\-- 

There’s nothing she can do for Finn’s leg, but the rest of their injuries are taken care of easily enough. As much as he wants to spend time with her, Clarke insists that Finn be with Raven. Raven was just as affected by Finn’s and Bellamy’s deaths - their _disappearances_ , she has to keep reminding herself - as she was. Raven was just better at hiding it.

Bellamy sits next to her by the fire later that night, his eyes studying her face. She stares into the flames for a few minutes before sighing and finally turning to face him. “What?” 

He shrugs a shoulder. “You did good, princess.” It’s an echo of something she’d said to him when they’d been naive enough to think the grounders would let them all retreat to the sea. She can’t help but wonder if he’s repeating her own words back to her deliberately or if he’s just trying to offer her some sort of comfort. Both options make her throat constrict.

She shakes her head, looking down again. “I did what I could.”

Bellamy nods. “Sometimes that’s all you can do.” 

She frowns, eyes fixed on the fire. “You should hate me.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because I left you to burn.” She can’t make herself look at him, allowing herself this one moment of weakness after weeks of concentrated strength - or at least the facade of strength. 

Bellamy considers her explanation for a moment before reaching out and placing a hand on her shoulder. It’s only there for a moment, but Clarke feels the ghost of it for the rest of the night. “Had to be done.”

He offers her some of his dinner - they both know he’s thinking about what Raven had said earlier - and she rolls her eyes, sighing. “I’m _fine_ ,” she emphasizes, but he merely quirks an eyebrow. She doesn’t want to fight with him so soon after getting him back, so she takes it, making sure he sees her finish the whole thing before she goes to bed. 

She’s glad he’s back; he’s the only one in camp who understands this part of her life. 

He shoulders some of her burden and she his.

\-- 

With Bellamy there, the rebuild goes much faster; he can rally the troops better than she ever could. The walls are up in a matter of days and they establish a watch schedule again.

“We can’t be too prepared,” he’d said, hands on his waist and a rifle strapped to his back as he looked out over what they’d managed to reestablish of their camp. Shelters were getting stronger and more numerous; people were able to have their own tents again. The smokehouse was finished and they’d started storing food, hoping to have a surplus come winter. “The grounders may be gone for now, but more of them will come. It’s a matter of when, not if.”

He, of course, gives himself way too many shifts. It’s only a few days of tip-toeing around each other, glad to be reunited, before they start arguing again. He insists that there’s work to do, that he needs to be on watch more often than not. She insists that he needs rest, that his body’s going to give out if he overexerts himself. All he ever does is give her a look that lets her know how hypocritical she’s being before she rolls her eyes and walks away. It’s the same conversation over and over again, but both of them are far too stubborn to take the other’s advice.

\-- 

Clarke winces as the girl in front of her whimpers, eyes squeezed shut and knuckles white as she holds onto her own shirt. “Ready?” The girl nods quickly, biting down on her bottom lip.

Popping a dislocated shoulder into place really is one of her least favorite treatments. 

She does what she has to do, though, and after some crying, Clarke finally manages to get the girl to calm down, letting her know she really shouldn’t be doing anymore heavy lifting for a while. She writes her a quick note getting her off of watch and tells her to relax, take a nap, go to the river - just do something that isn’t _work_ for once. It’s probably more than a little hypocritical coming from her, but they’ve all gotten used to following Clarke’s medical advice - even if she doesn’t follow it herself. Her mother had always told her that doctors made the worst patients.

She sits down on the dropship floor, her head falling back and thudding against the metal wall. For once, she allows her eyes to flutter shut. She’s been feeling lightheaded on and off for the last couple hours and she knows, logically speaking, that it’s probably because she hasn’t eaten in a while. They don’t have much food yet, though, and the younger kids need it much more than she does. 

Skipping meals has become a regular thing for Clarke. She’s always busy, flitting around camp and patching wounds, supervising work, standing watch. It’s painfully easy to lie and say that she’s already eaten.

When she occasionally undresses, changing into her only other shirt, she can see her stomach getting smaller, has started noticing the outline of her ribs, observes the way her skin pulls taut over her brittle bones. 

Better her than them.

The younger ones are still developing, need as much protein and as many nutrients as they can manage to get. Everyone has a reason to need food more than her: Bellamy and his group have to be strong so they can rebuild, the gunners have to be able to keep watch, and they have to learn how to fight if they want to be ready for the next wave of grounder attacks. All she has to do is pop some dislocated shoulders back into place and make a few decisions. It’s fine.

She’ll be fine.

Groaning, she pulls herself to her feet, offering Raven a half-hearted smile as she leaves the dropship. There’s some yelling out by the wall - probably another lovers’ quarrel between Harper and Fox - and she knows it’s her turn to mediate. 

Her fingers pinch the bridge of her nose as she listens to each side of the argument. There’s something about how Fox had seen Harper flirting with Monty - which has Monty blushing and Jasper patting him on the back - but Harper counters and says Fox is just insecure. 

In the grand scheme of things, it’s all so petty. _Normal_ , she reminds herself. It’s so easy to forget that they’re all teenagers sometimes. 

It’s difficult to pay attention to the intricacies of the argument, her focus popping in and out as the conversation shifts. 

Black spots are starting to cloud her vision and she frowns, a wrinkle forming in her brow. “Oh, no,” she murmurs, a hand reaching out for some sort of solid weight to brace herself against but finding only empty air.

Jasper takes a few steps forward, concern etched into his features. “Clarke? Are you alright?”

Instinctively, she nods, but she’s far from alright. Her mouth is dry and her head is spinning and she know she’s about to black out. Yes, she’s been skipping meals and _yes_ , she’d only slept a few hours last night, but she thought she could hold out longer than this. She’d eaten at dinner last night and her body has grown accustomed to long hours and a heavy workload. If she wasn’t so busy trying to stay upright, she probably would have been embarrassed. 

But then all hopes of remaining upright are shattered and her eyes flutter shut, her legs giving out from under her. 

And all she sees is darkness.

\--

She wakes up to a splitting headache and the rough fabric of a blanket that, judging by the smell, is definitely not hers rubbing against her face. She groans a little, shifting the slightest bit and wincing. When she finally manages to open her eyes, the first thing she sees is a very irate Bellamy, arms crossed over his chest. And then her eyes snap shut again, the light burning behind her eyelids and making her head hurt.

“You hit your head pretty hard.” 

“How long was I out?” She wishes she could suppress every single memory of her passing out, but her mind is just as stubborn as the rest of her, and she knows she won’t forget that for a long time. Seeing everyone who’d been there - Monty, Jasper, Harper, Fox, and whoever else happened to glance over at that exact moment - would no doubt cause a hot flush of embarrassment to appear on her cheeks for the next couple of days. 

“A few hours.”

She sighs, moving to get up despite the shot of pain behind her eyes. There’s probably a line of kids outside the dropship wondering why she isn’t there to check on every cough or sneeze. But Bellamy’s hand presses against her shoulder and she falls back with a huff, eyes narrowed as she squints up at him. “I have work to do.”

“Not today.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” If she’d been feeling stronger, she probably would have put a little more bite behind her words, but it comes out softer and more tired than she’d intended. 

“It _means_ ,” Bellamy begins. Even if she hadn’t been able to see the tense irritation in his stance or the way his jaw clenched just before he spoke, she would have been able to sense it in his voice. “That you’re staying in bed for the rest of the day.”

“Like hell.” She sits up again and goes to swing her legs off the bed, but Bellamy’s quicker than her, pressing her back down onto his makeshift mattress before she can get any kind of leverage. “What’s your deal, Bellamy? We both know I have more important things I should be doing.”

“Yeah, and we both know you can’t do any of them if you’re gonna be passing out every two seconds.”

“Oh, please! It was _one time_.” And just like that, she’s found her voice, indignation flaring in her eyes. There’s nothing Clarke hates more than being told she can’t do something, especially by Bellamy. She would prove him wrong every time.

He fixes her with a level stare. “Miller.” 

Miller pokes his head into the tent. It’s probably the first time Clarke has ever seen him without his beanie; she wonders, briefly, what happened to it. “Yeah?”

Bellamy doesn’t look away from her for even a second. “I don’t care what she says, Clarke is not to leave this tent until I come back. That clear?” Miller just nods. “If she does, come find me.”

“Got it.” 

Clarke glares at him, remembering how he’d said the same thing to Murphy about Octavia just after they’d reached the ground. When had that overprotective instinct shifted onto her? “You can’t keep me locked up in here all day.”

He quirks an eyebrow. “No?” Her jaw clenches, her hands forming fists at her sides. “Watch me.”

Just like that, he’s gone. Miller fixes her with a sympathetic look, shrugging a shoulder. “Sorry. S’for the best.”

She knows he’s only doing what Bellamy had asked, that his willingness to stand outside a tent all day instead of doing something productive and useful means he cares about her well-being, but all she can think about is being locked in a proverbial cell once again, put in solitary for doing what she thinks is right. So she glares at him until he raises a hand in surrender and lets the flap of the tent fall between them, the outline of his body visible through the thin barrier of the canvas. 

This is ridiculous. 

She’s going to make Bellamy Blake’s life a living hell.

\--

Snooping through his stuff literally takes her two seconds. All he has is a change of clothes, some sheets of paper covered in writing that she sets aside to read later, and some extra rifle rounds. It’s painfully boring and she wishes that she could find something to embarrass him. It would serve him right.

Wandering around the enclosed space doesn’t do her any good, either; there’s barely enough room to pace. She sits down on the edge of the bed with a sigh, reaching for the slightly crumpled pages and smoothing them out against her thighs. Maybe Bellamy keeps a secret diary professing his feelings of love and adoration for Raven’s body. (Raven’s her best friend, but she isn’t _blind_ and she knows those two had sex once upon a time.) 

What she finds makes her shift back against the bed a little more, lying down and holding the pieces of paper above her, ankles crossed. Bellamy had written down stories about gods and goddesses, short blurbs about women named Athena and Persephone and men like Ares and Hades. She remembers hearing about them during school on the Ark, but she doesn’t remember reading these particular stories. They’re graphic and intriguing and, God, if she wasn’t so annoyed with him, she’d probably ask him to tell her more about the girl who simultaneously signalled the return of spring and ruled as the queen of the Underworld. 

She sounds like someone Clarke would quite like to meet. 

Her eyelids start to feel heavy. She’s still bitter about the way Bellamy had gone about it, but maybe he was right when he said she needed rest. She slips off her jacket, rolling it into a ball and using it as a makeshift pillow as she crawls underneath his blanket. 

The combination of the familiar smell of Bellamy and the warmth from the covers has her drifting off in a matter of moments, her hands folded under her face as she curls up into a ball.

\--

It’s much easier to wake up this time. Instead of wincing from the pain and groaning, her eyes flutter open and she arches her back, sighing contentedly when she feels her joints crack. “Look who’s finally awake.” Bellamy’s voice drifts into her consciousness and she rolls her eyes, shifting so she’s facing him, her hands still tucked under her face. Her hair’s probably all over the place and her eyes are bleary, but she still manages to glare at him.

“I’m still mad at you.”

Bellamy just grins, setting down the pencil he’d been writing with. She makes a mental note to ask him where he’d found it later on; she’d kill for the ability to sketch again and they’d used up or broken all of the ones from the bunker she’d been to with Finn. “For what, taking care of you?”

She looks him right in the eye. “I can take care of myself.”

He snorts, his expression filled with disbelief. “Yeah, you passing out in the middle of camp really proves that you’re doing a bang-up job.”

Her cheeks flush, though she can’t tell if it’s from irritation or embarrassment. Probably both. “Fuck you.”

She makes to turn away from him - his bed is too comfortable to give up just yet - but he reaches out, fingers brushing against her elbow. Her skin feels hot where he’s touched her. “Sorry.”

“I can tell.”

The corner of his mouth turns upward. “C’mon princess, you can’t tell me you don’t feel better after a nap.” He glances toward the front of his tent. “Although, I don’t know if it can really be called a nap if you slept past sundown.”

She burrows deeper under the blanket, wishing she had an actual pillow. “Let the record show that I was coerced into sleeping the day away.”

“Duly noted.” 

She hums, closing her eyes. For the first time since the grounder attack, she’d been able to sleep without having a nightmare. She can’t tell if it’s because she’d slept during the day, or if it had something to do with Bellamy’s bed. 

She hopes, for her own sanity’s sake, that it’s the former.

“Don’t you have your own tent?” he teases, leaning forward and poking her face. 

“Thought I wasn’t allowed to leave,” she murmurs, scrunching her nose and smacking his hand away. 

“Clarke.” He sounds serious this time, all traces of teasing and bickering long gone. “Are you okay?” She opens her mouth to respond, but he cuts her off. “You don’t have to lie to me.”

She frowns, considering just how to answer him. It’s probably best she keeps the full extent of it to herself, but there can’t be anything wrong with sharing a little bit. It might even feel good to say it out loud to talk to someone who gets it. “I’ve been better.” His gaze doesn’t waver. “I’ve been worse, too,” she offers, thinking about how bad things had been when she’d opened the dropship door and seen the charred remains of the grounders, how on edge she’d been when she thought Bellamy and Finn were dead because of her. How she’d very nearly keeled over when that 13-year-old girl had accused her of killing Bellamy. 

“I’m worried about you.” When she looks straight at Bellamy, his eyes are averted, staring down at the ground as he speaks. For the first time in a long time, she doesn’t interrupt him. “When I was out there with Finn for all those weeks - ” She exhales hard through her nose, turning her face and burying it in her jacket for a moment. “It was awful,” he finally finishes, a hand coming up to tug on his messy curls. “I mean, Spacewalker isn’t exactly the best company.” She laughs once, watching the way his eyes flick up to her face before looking away again. “I kept thinking about everyone back here, wondering if you guys were okay.” She chews on her bottom lip. He hesitates. “It’s hard running things. I was worried about you then, too.” She offers him a soft smile, remembering the first time they’d exchanged those words. “I didn’t know who was dead and who was alive. I still don’t know if Octavia’s okay, or - ” He stops mid-sentence, shaking his head and squeezing his eyes shut. “I’m glad you’re alive,” he finishes, finally looking up at her. “It sucked without you there telling me I was wrong every two seconds,” he teases. 

She laughs, sitting up and running a hand through her hair, fingers getting caught in all the tangles. Not for the first time, she wishes she had a brush to run through it. “Yeah, you must have missed me something fierce.” Her voice is sarcastic and she rolls her eyes, fingers deftly working her hair into something vaguely akin to a braid. 

“I swear, I heard your voice in my head telling me I was stupid for trying to eat that plant that made me throw up for three days straight, or that I was being too mean to Finn when he couldn’t keep up.” He shakes his head. “Couldn’t stop nagging me even when you thought I was dead.”

The easy smile that’s on her lips fades away instantly, her eyes downcast. “If you actually die, Bellamy -”

He cuts her off. “You couldn’t get rid of me that easily even if you wanted to.”

“But if you do,” she pushes, “I swear to God, I’ll do CPR until you come back to life and then I’ll kill you myself.” 

Bellamy laughs for real then, the corners of his eyes crinkling. She can’t remember the last time either of them had done that, and it brings a real smile to her face. When he looks at her, his guard is down. She makes a concentrated effort not to ruin the moment by teasing him about it, waiting to see what’ll happen. 

“You can’t die either,” he finally manages, refusing to break eye contact. “I need you to be healthy. No more skipping meals.” Her brow furrows and he smirks. “Yeah, I noticed. You’re not as sneaky as you think you are.” She huffs, crossing her arms over her chest. “No more all-nighters on watch. I can’t do this without you, Clarke.” 

She nods. “You don’t get to boss me around, Bellamy.” She pauses, watching the way he stiffens, a frown forming on his face. “You have to trust me. But I guess I’ll try to eat more if it’ll help you sleep at night.” 

He rolls his eyes. “You’re free to go now. I told Miller he could leave hours ago.” He stands up, stretching. “I’m beat and there’s dinner waiting for you in your tent. Jasper threatened to bitch slap anyone who tried to take it; it’ll probably hurt his feelings if you don’t eat it.” This time, it’s her turn to roll her eyes. 

“Before I go.” She stands up, tilting her head a bit so she can look up at his face. “Tell me more about Persephone.”

His eyes widen a little. “Why the sudden interest in mythology?” She looks back at the crinkled pages and he narrows his eyes. “You went through my things.”

She grins. “Yeah, all three of them.” 

He shakes his head, but the smile on his face can only be described as fond. “I should have known you’d like her.”

“Why?”

“She reminds me of you sometimes.” He closes his eyes briefly, shaking his head a little bit as if he hadn’t meant to say that. 

“Well, now you _have_ to tell me more.”

“Tomorrow,” he promises, stifling a yawn. “I’ve got an early morning and _you_ have to go eat. Monty promised to rat you out if he doesn’t find an empty plate outside your tent tomorrow morning.”

She groans, shaking her head. It’s nice that her friends care, but. “If you don’t stop running surveillance on my every move, I’m gonna make things _extremely_ difficult for you.”

“You mean more than you already do?”

\--

It isn’t until a few nights later that Clarke finally manages to corner Bellamy when he’s alone standing by the wall, rifle in hand as the sun disappears behind the trees. She stands next to him, hands on her hips as she surveys the woods in front of them. It’s been quiet for a while and she has no clue what that means. Are the grounders gone? When will more be coming to take their place? How long do they have before something else bad happens?

Bellamy’s elbow nudges her in the side and she glances over at him, an eyebrow raised. “Stop thinking so loud.”

She rolls her eyes, but she has to press her lips together to keep from grinning. “You owe me, Bellamy.” 

It’s his turn to quirk an eyebrow. “What exactly do I owe you, and why?”

“You owe me the story of Persephone, seeing as you trapped me in your tent for a day and have had people following me around and practically force feeding me ever since.” Maybe there’s a little more venom in her words than is entirely necessary, but Clarke is still bitter about the whole arrangement. 

Bellamy at least has the the good sense to wince. “Look, I’ll call them off, okay? I was a dick, but I only do it because I care.” 

She knows that - of course she does - but it’s still nice to hear. “Yeah, you were.” 

The corners of his lips turn upward and he finally dives into the story of Persephone. He tells her about Zeus and Demeter, how she was abducted by Hades, how her mother made the Earth barren for months with her grief, how she became Queen of the Underworld. The entire time, a tiny wrinkle is present between Clarke’s eyebrows, her arms crossed over her chest. Bellamy finishes his story, glancing over at her out of the corner of his eye, no doubt attempting to gauge her reaction. 

“I don’t get it.” 

He turns to face her fully, brow furrowed. “What don’t you get?”

“Why does she remind you of me? I don’t really think I’d be kidnapped and taken to the Underworld quite so easily.” Her hands find her hips once again as she turns to face him, only a few inches separating them.

“You were sent to Earth in a dropship against your will, princess.” That damn smirk makes an appearance on his face once again. “Besides, I like another interpretation of the myth much better for you.”

“How does that one go?” 

“Some people believe that Persephone chose to go to the Underworld of her own free will, that she heard the suffering of the dead souls and decided to help. That she willingly goes back every year because she loves Hades, and because she loves being Queen.” 

She tilts her head to the side the slightest bit, considering the new take on the story. “I like that one better, too.”

He bumps her with his elbow again, turning back to face the woods, eyes darting from tree to tree. “I knew you would.”

\--

They’re settled into an easy routine by the time Octavia shows up with Lincoln in tow. Clarke doesn’t rush to greet her, knows that the guilt that had been gradually dissipating is gonna settle cold and heavy in her chest once again the moment she sees the younger girl. She’d closed the dropship door on Bellamy; there’s no way Octavia’s ever gonna forgive her for something like that.

She hears the gist of of what’s happened in the last couple months from some of the other delinquents: Lincoln had carried a wounded Octavia from the battlefield, a poison arrow jutting out of her thigh. He’d helped her heal, went back to his village and got the medicine she needed despite the fact that they’d declared him a traitor. There’d been a few skirmishes - Octavia came back with some grounder braids in her hair and a hardened expression that Clarke can make out from across the camp - and they’d had to take shelter in the woods for a while until things died down. And now they were back. 

That’s really all Clarke needs to know. It’s not really any of her business - not anymore. Once upon a time, she and Octavia had been good friends. Something tells her that’s not going to be the case anymore once O finds out about what she did. 

She’s talking to Miller, going over the watch schedule while Bellamy and Octavia have dinner together. He glances over her shoulder and his eyes go wide as he stumbles back a step. She’s never seen Miller afraid of anything before - she has no idea what could be coming. There’s not even enough time to glance over her shoulder before she feels hands colliding with her back. _Hard_. She lurches forward, just managing to get her hands out in front of her to soften her fall. She lands wrong, though, and cries out as she rolls onto her back, cradling her wrist against her chest, a fuming Octavia standing above her. “Octavia - ”

“You could have killed him!” Her voice is loud enough that people turn to stare at the spectacle. She lunges forward, but Bellamy wraps an arm around her waist and holds her back. Clarke’s face flushes as she shifts back a little, tries to get out of Octavia’s range. 

“O, enough.” Bellamy’s voice is hard.

“No, Bell.” She pulls away from him, but doesn’t make any move toward Clarke. “I mean, we all knew she was a hard-ass, but I didn’t think she was a _murderer_.” She spits the word out with enough force that Clarke winces, her eyes closed. “At least now everyone knows the Ark’s princess is a royal _bitch_.” 

She storms off and Clarke stumbles to her feet, a little unsteady. Bellamy looks torn between the two of them and she knows he wants to go after Octavia to calm her down, but that he feels obligated to tell her - for the millionth time - that he doesn’t blame her. It doesn’t matter. 

Shaking her head, she just walks away, rolling her wrist a little to see just how badly it hurts. It’s not sprained, thank God, but it’s gonna be sore for a couple days. She can deal with a couple days. 

Clarke doesn’t even look over her shoulder before retreating into her tent. She can hear the whispers as she walks by; she should probably be used to them by now.

It still stings that people talk _about_ her now more than they talk _to_ her.

\-- 

Octavia avoids her for a week and a half before she apologizes. Clarke knows Bellamy put her up to it and she can tell Octavia doesn’t _really_ mean it, but she accepts it all the same. She tries to explain why she closed the door, tells Octavia she’s so, _so_ sorry and that it had been one of the hardest things she’s ever had to do, but Octavia doesn’t wanna hear it. She stands there and listens, a blank, hard look on her face, nods at all the right times and stares Clarke right in the eye.

When Clarke’s finished, Octavia just mumbles a quick _yeah, okay_ before walking away. 

She sees Lincoln nod at her from across the camp as Octavia goes to meet him and she can’t help but think that he’s one of the few people who might understand her decision, that maybe he can talk to Octavia about it. Maybe he already has.

Octavia doesn’t glare at her as much and she even makes polite conversation when they’re in the dropship at the same time. She makes a joke and looks up at Clarke in surprise when she laughs, the corners of her lips turning the slightest bit upward. It’s not much, but it’s progress.

\-- 

It snows.

She knew, logically speaking, that it would happen eventually. It had been getting progressively colder for weeks now; the last time she’d washed in the river, her hair had nearly frozen on her walk back. 

But she hadn’t expected it to be so _pretty_. She’s read about it in books, knows the science behind it and what it means for the camp, but it’s the first time she’s had the privilege of seeing it in person. 

She stands outside her tent just after waking up to another frigid morning and smiles at the rest of the delinquents playing in the blanket of snow that has accumulated overnight. Octavia’s smiling wide for the first time that Clarke’s seen since she got back, laughing as she pushes Lincoln down and rubs snow in his face. He just smiles and rolls them over, pushing her shirt up the slightest bit and pressing snow to the exposed skin. Octavia shrieks and Clarke looks away - it feels like a private moment. 

A ball of snow hits her square in the chest and she gasps, both at the sudden chill on her bare skin and at the surprise of the impact. Looking around for the culprit, her eyes land on Bellamy a few feet away as he wipes his hands on his pants, a smirk on his face. _Of course_ it’s Bellamy.

She narrows her eyes at him as she bends to gather some snow of her own, pressing it into a ball as best as she can. He’s pressing his lips together like he’s trying not to laugh and that gives her all the fuel she needs, her arm drawing back so she can chuck the snow at him. He doesn’t move out of the way in time and it hits him in the stomach, his shirt visibly wet when he brushes the snow away. She can’t help but laugh; the sound is foreign to her own ears. 

He forms another snowball and she turns to run away, glancing over her shoulder in time to see him following her. She has to dodge Jasper ducking behind a tent to get away from Monty’s maniacal laughter, brushes past Fox and Harper catching snowflakes on their tongues. A snowball narrowly misses her head and she turns to stick her tongue out at Bellamy. He approaches her - he clearly doesn’t know she has her own snowball hidden behind her back - and she offers him her best innocent smile. 

He at least as the sense to look wary. 

When he’s only a couple feet away, she uses her secret weapon. It hits him right in the face and he sputters, lunges for her and wraps his arms around her middle to get his revenge. She shrieks and tries to struggle out of his grasp, but he’s stronger than her, the muscles in his forearms flexing as he tightens his grip. “Bellamy, I swear to God…”

He just laughs and picks her up, dropping her in a particularly large pile of snow. Her clothes are gonna be soaked for hours, but she can’t bring herself to be angry. 

He extends his hand to help her up and she takes it, a devious glint in her eye. “Clarke - ” She doesn’t give him enough time to finish, just tugs as hard as she can and laughs when he lands face-first in the snow next to her. 

She doesn’t move to get up yet, looks at the clouds, snowflakes catching in her eyelashes. Bellamy’s a constant presence next to her, the warmth from his body the only thing that’s keeping her from shivering. His eyes are trained on her face, but she doesn’t feel the need to turn and look at him. The comfortable silence is a gift, and she’s thankful for it.

This - the snowball fight, running through camp with Bellamy, watching the snow fall - is the most fun she’s had in a long time.

\-- 

The fun ends abruptly.

The snow doesn’t stop falling for three days straight and the novelty has clearly worn off; there are no more kids running around having snowball fights or building snowmen. Instead, everyone’s shivering, hovering together for warmth, rushing to Bellamy for help when their tents cave in from the weight of all the snow. 

There are so many things they aren’t equipped to deal with.

It doesn’t help that Lincoln goes back to TonDC for a couple weeks to see a friend. 

Some of their food freezes. Clarke has to treat her first case of frostbite, which surely won’t be the last. They need to find more ways to keep warm - keeping a few fires going around camp isn’t enough. 

It’s been less than a week and they’re already struggling. She has no idea how they’re supposed to survive months of this. 

Things get worse when everyone seems to get sick all at once. There’s an abundance of runny noses, wet coughs that rattle in people’s chests, and, Clarke’s least favorite: the flu. She’s terrified that more people are gonna die, that they’re gonna have to find something to do with the bodies now that the ground’s too frozen to bury them. She’s commandeered a circle of tents just outside the dropship for the sick, moving everyone else closer to the perimeter.

It’s the most she can do, offering them comfort and trying to prevent the spread of disease. 

It’s not enough.

Five die in the first two weeks. 

They have to burn the bodies.

\-- 

Bellamy still takes a group out hunting from time to time despite the fact that most of the animals have disappeared. They come back with game sometimes, but it’s not nearly as often as it used to be and it’s certainly a lot smaller than it had been during the summer.

He’s gone out with Monroe, Miller, and a couple of the other gunners. Clarke’s trying not to get worried about how long they’ve been gone, but she grows restless when the sun starts to set - earlier and earlier these days - and they’re not back. They know they shouldn’t be out at night. 

She’s sitting by one of the fires, eyes trained on the gate as she does her best not to shiver, when she sees it start to open. She’s on her feet and rushing to the group before she can even register the fact that they’re carrying someone in on a makeshift stretcher. 

It’s Bellamy.

Her breath catches in her throat and her heart is pounding in her chest, her hands shaking as she reaches him and starts checking him for injuries. He’s conscious and there’s no blood, thank God, and she lets out a quick sigh of relief. 

She looks up at Miller. “What happened?”

Miller opens his mouth to explain, but Bellamy cuts him off. “I was ahead of the group. Hit a patch of ice and went down hard on my knee. I tried to walk back,” he starts, shooting a glare at Miller, “but they wouldn’t let me.”

“Good.” His glare shifts to her. It doesn’t faze her. “You shouldn’t put any weight on it until we know how bad it is.”

He trains his gaze straight ahead and she has to press her lips together to keep from laughing. Now that she knows he’s alright, it’s much easier to be amused by how proud he’s being, how stubborn. He’s almost as bad at letting people take care of him as she is. 

“Bring him to my tent.” Monroe and Miller nod as they carry him away. She thanks the rest of the group and tells them to get some dinner and sit by the fire, grabbing her medkit before she joins Bellamy in her tent. 

He’s lying on her bed, arms crossed over his chest, when she gets there. “Oh, how the tables have turned,” she teases. “I seem to remember our roles being reversed a little while ago. Something about how you needed me healthy and I should rest. Sound familiar?”

Bellamy just glares. “I’m fine.”

Clarke nods. “That’s what I said, too.” 

She kneels next to her bed and reaches for the leg of his pants, gently rolling up the fabric so she can get a look at the injury. When she glances up at him, she can see that his jaw is clenched and he’s breathing a little heavily through his nose; he’s clearly trying not to let her know just how badly it hurts. 

She gets the pants above his knee and focuses on her task, fingers gently pressing at his skin until he flinches. “Sorry,” she murmurs, leaning a bit closer. The skin around his knee is bruised a dark purple already, but the kneecap isn’t shattered. There’s a lot of swelling and she frowns. “I can’t know for sure without an X-ray, but I’m pretty sure you just bruised the bone.” 

“What does that mean?”

“It _means_ ,” she starts, standing up. She takes everything off the piece of metal she’d been using as a small table and brings it over to the bed. It’s only a couple inches off the ground, but it’s enough to keep her things from sitting in the dirt. “That it’s gonna hurt like hell for a while. You’ll have to ice it a couple times a day for at least 2 days. Keep it elevated.” Motioning for him to lift his leg, he does. It takes a serious effort though, and she can tell by the look on his face that he’s in pain. She wraps her jacket around the metal, ignoring the goosebumps that rise on her skin as she places it under his knee. It’s the best she can do for now. 

She hesitates, knowing he won’t be happy about the next part. “You’ll have to stay in bed for a couple days.” He starts to protest and she holds up a hand to silence him which, surprisingly, works. “After that, you’ll have to use crutches or a cane for a while. You can’t start putting all your weight on it at once, or it’s only gonna get worse. It has to be a gradual transition.” 

He’s pissed, but he doesn’t contradict her - he knows she’s right.

It only serves to show just how far they’ve come; if this had happened just after they’d gotten to the ground, he would have done everything in his power to defy her. 

“You can stay here.”

“Clarke, c’mon.” He rolls his eyes. “I can go back to my own tent.”

She shakes her head. “You’re already situated here. It would be an unnecessary hassle to carry you across camp and set everything up.”

“Where are you gonna sleep?” 

“I’ll sleep in your tent. Or the dropship.” She shrugs a shoulder. “I’ll figure it out. Maybe I’ll stay with Monty and Jasper - more body heat is never a bad thing.”

A look washes over his features that she doesn’t recognize, which - what? He quickly rearranges his features into a blank slate, though, and she decides not to push it - he’s already in a foul mood. “I have stuff to do.”

“Yeah, that’s what I said when you stationed a guard outside your tent and wouldn’t let me leave.” She lets the grin tug at her lips when he narrows his eyes at her. “We’ll figure it out,” she reassures him, reaching down and touching his arm. “We always do.” 

He nods. “Yeah, we do.” It comes out a little quiet, his eyes fixed on her face. It’s a look she’s never seen from him before and it makes something flutter in her stomach. 

She clears her throat and steps back, wiping her palms on the front of her pants. “I’ll send Monroe in with some food and water. You should rest.” 

He calls her name when she turns to leave. “What about your jacket?”

Clarke looks at her only jacket wrapped around the piece of metal under his knee and frowns. She could get sick if she goes out there without it for too long, but she doesn’t want the metal to hurt his knee, knows he wouldn’t keep it elevated if the metal bit into his skin too much. 

“I’ll sit by the fire.” Before he can protest, she’s gone, rubbing her hands over her arms, hoping the friction is enough to keep her from getting frostbite in the short time it takes her to get to Monty and Jasper’s tent.

They welcome her with open arms and she’s right: the body heat helps.

\-- 

It turns out that Bellamy is an even worse patient than Clarke.

Every time she goes in to check on him, he asks her a million questions about what’s going on in the camp, complains about how it hurts, how cold he is - _we’re all cold, Bellamy_ \- and asks for more food or water. He’s a total baby about it and, to be quite honest, he’s getting on her last nerve. If he asks her how long he has to stay in her bed _one more time_ , she’s gonna snap. 

So she starts sending Octavia and Miller instead. 

They look at her like she’s crazy when she asks if he’s still being annoying about the whole thing - apparently it was all for her benefit, his own version of punishment for sentencing him to bed rest.

She’s ready to throw a party the day he finally leaves her tent and can walk around the camp again. He has to use a branch as a cane - Murphy spent a full day whittling away at it - but his mood is significantly improved. 

When Octavia makes a million and one old man jokes as he hobbles around camp, he only rolls his eyes and huffs. Clarke can tell, though, that he’s trying his hardest not to give her the satisfaction of a smile. 

She’s wrapping a blanket around the shoulders of two of the younger kids as they sit by the fire when she catches his eye. He mouths _thank you_ in her direction and she quirks an eyebrow, offering him a nod. The smile on his face is genuine and she can’t help but match it with her own.

\-- 

Lincoln comes back with a few of his people - the ones who don’t consider him a traitor - and a slew of furs.

Clarke is so happy when she sees them that she nearly cries. She’s pretty sure her eyes are glossy. 

There aren’t enough for everyone to have their own just yet, but they’ve come with more than just physical gifts: they’re willing to trade information, too. 

Clarke doesn’t see Bellamy for a few days. He’s able to walk well enough without his cane and he takes Miller with him when Lincoln and a couple of grounders Clarke hasn’t met yet offer to teach them where to find the large game and how to take them down. The grounders that stay behind show a few of the other delinquents how to skin the animals and turn their fur into jackets and blankets. 

Clarke spends her time in the dropship with Nyko. He teaches her about grounder healing techniques - there are so many plants not even Monty knows about that have medicinal properties - and she fills the gaps in his information. Monty teaches a grounder woman named Loya how to make a better still.

It’s a mutually beneficial relationship Clarke hadn’t known either group could ever be capable of.

\-- 

The grounders leave after a week and things go back to normal.

Mostly.

Clarke sees Bellamy in his fur - thick and black as night - and her breath catches in her throat. It suits him; he looks good in it, barking orders at guards on the wall and talking to Miller. It’s _regal_. For some reason, she finds herself recalling the story of Hades and Persephone that Bellamy had told her all those weeks ago. _Bellamy would make a good Hades,_ she thinks, tilting her head to the side. 

She remembers Bellamy telling her that she reminds him of Persephone; her cheeks go pink despite the cold and she retreats to her tent, pushing all thoughts of mythology and of Bellamy out of her head.

\-- 

Clarke’s fur - once they have enough for everyone - is gray and she’s absolutely in love with it. Someone told her it came from a wolf, that it had been the most beautiful animal anyone had seen since coming to the ground.

She almost never takes it off. 

Whenever they’re in the same place, she can _feel_ Bellamy’s eyes on her, knows he’s looking at her but can’t figure out why. 

“Can I talk to you?” He looks mildly annoyed when she cuts him off mid-sentence, rolling his eyes when he tells Sterling they can finish the conversation later. 

“What is it, princess?” 

“Is there something wrong with my fur?” She looks down at herself, smooths her hands over the soft material covering her chest. 

“Excuse me?”

Her gaze finds his face again and she quirks an eyebrow, hands finding her hips. “You keep staring at me whenever I wear it.”

His eyes go wide for a fraction of a second. “No, I don’t.”

She fixes him with a look that lets him know she doesn’t believe him. “Yes, you do.” She smooths her hands over the material again, revels in how soft and warm it is. When she looks up at Bellamy, she can’t help but notice the way his eyes follow the path of her hands. That’s… interesting. “Is there something wrong with it?”

His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows hard, his gaze snapping up to meet hers. “No!” It’s so enthusiastic that Clarke has to press her lips together to fight off a grin. “No, it’s - why would you even ask me that?” She opens her mouth to respond, but he cuts her off. “That’s - that’s ridiculous, Clarke. I have work to do.” He turns on his heel and storms off. 

She doesn’t push it.

\-- 

The temperature slowly starts to increase, which everyone is thankful for. The melting snow is another thing entirely, though. Everything is covered in dirty slush and mud, aching for a good wash. When Clarke checks on the river, most of the ice has melted and some of the animals have started to return.

It’s the beginning of spring. 

In a matter of weeks, they can shed their furs, some returning to the jackets they came to the ground in and others skipping that step entirely. The sudden reappearance of so much bare skin has some of the older kids going crazy; Clarke catches three different couples in various states of undress making out on her way to the river (one of which is Miller and Monty). 

For the first time in months, she’s gonna be able to wash her hair without it freezing on her walk home. It’s a tiny luxury, but she’s learned to be thankful for them. 

Her shirt is already off, her hands behind her back fumbling with her broken bra clasp, when she sees him. Bellamy’s beaten her to the river; she can see his profile as he bends over and scrubs his shirt in the water. She’s close enough that she can see the lean muscles in his shoulder moving as his hands do, his bicep and forearm on display, the sharp line of his hipbone persuading her gaze to go even lower. She stops herself suddenly, ducking behind a tree, her shirt clasped tightly in her hand as she fights to catch her breath. 

It’s not the first time she’s seen Bellamy shirtless, but. This time feels different. 

She doesn’t know why.

Berating herself for being so stupid, she comes out from behind the tree, glancing over her shoulder before she approaches Bellamy. There’s no reason they can’t wash their clothes - and their hair - at the same time. They’re both adults, right? 

Of course, she can’t keep her eyes from wandering over his body, the tanned skin and freckles that dot his shoulder trailing down his arm. The thought that maybe they continue all the way across his chest propels her forward, her mouth gone dry. Suddenly, she’s dying to know if they do.

He stands and turns around, wringing out the excess water in his shirt. Her lips quirk upward as she starts to say hello when she sees it, freezing in her tracks. 

A burn scar. 

She can’t see all of it, but she can tell that it’s large. It snakes from his abdomen to his back, marring the skin covering his ribcage and his hip on one side. Something clenches in her stomach and her mouth falls open, her shirt hitting the ground without a second thought. 

_She_ did that. 

The guilt never really dissipated, but she’d learned how to compartmentalize it, to use it to her advantage whenever she needed it months ago. The sight of the scar has all the memories and feelings rushing back: closing the dropship door, spending those first couple weeks without Bellamy, thinking he’d been dead. 

When he’d told all of them where he and Finn had been, he’d failed to mention getting hurt. That was for her benefit, she’s sure. 

She feels sick, bending to pick up her shirt and pulling it on as quickly as she can. Without a second glance - the sight of it is going to be burned into her subconscious anyway - she rushes back to camp, all thoughts of washing her hair forgotten.

\-- 

Clarke avoids Bellamy for the rest of the day. It’s not hard - with the warmer weather, people go traipsing through the woods, falling and hurting themselves in any number of ways. There’s plenty to keep her busy in the dropship until dinner. It’s easy enough to take dinner back to her tent, claiming a headache that only Bellamy seems to be suspicious of. She avoids his gaze as she walks away.

She makes herself go to bed early, lying in bed and naming all the bones in the human body until she drifts off. 

The nightmares come back. 

They’d been gone for so long - she’d been sleeping soundly, barely dreaming at all. But now she sees fire behind her eyes, sees Bellamy getting burned. There’s pain in his expression and he calls out to her, asks why she didn’t try to save him. 

She sits up in bed, sweat on her brow and her breathing labored. For a split second, she truly believes Bellamy’s dead. The truth comes back to her, though, and the relief that washes over her is intense, her eyes fluttering shut and her hands covering her face. There are tears threatening to fall from her eyes, but she looks at the roof of her tent, takes slow, deep breaths and wills them away. 

No matter how long she lies in bed, no matter how many times she tells herself he’s _fine_ , a part of Clarke wonders what’s true and what’s actually a dream. 

After what feels like hours, she huffs, throwing her blanket back and climbing out of bed. She pulls her jeans on and reaches for her jacket, quietly making the trek over to Bellamy’s tent. 

She’s being absolutely ridiculous. The logical part of her brain is yelling at her, telling her how childish this is. 

But another part reminds her that - even though her 18th birthday passed months ago and she helped lead a bunch of kids into war, has burned the bodies of some of her friends - she still _is_ a child. Even if she rarely feels like one. 

She reaches his tent and sighs, wonders how the hell she’s going to see him without waking him up. He’s always been a light sleeper. Glancing around to make sure nobody’s watching her be a giant creep - the only other people awake are the people on watch, thank God - she steps closer, reaching for the flap. She hears the low rumble of his voice, though, knows it’s him even though she can’t make out what he’s saying. 

Her eyes widen. She could be caught in a moment and he’d most definitely never let her live it down. Satisfied with the reassurance that Bellamy hadn’t died in the fire, she practically sprints back to her own tent, collapsing onto the bed with a small smile when she gets there. 

She’s taking off her jeans when she realizes she hadn’t had to check on Finn at all, hadn’t even thought about him. Why? Trying to find the answer has the potential to keep her up all night, so she pushes it out of her mind entirely. 

Compartmentalizing is something she’s grown accustomed to.

\-- 

Checking up on Bellamy before she goes to bed becomes a bit of a habit for Clarke. As it starts to get hotter, it becomes part of her routine.

She’s making her way toward his tent on a particularly hot night, wishing - not for the first time, by any means - that she had a pair of shorts, when he interrupts her. 

“Clarke.”

She’s snapped out of her reverie, her eyes going wide for a moment before she realizes that he has no clue what she’s doing. She could be on this side of camp for anything. 

“Bellamy.”

He narrows his eyes at her, gaze trained on her face. She can feel a bead of sweat trickling down her neck and disappearing under her shirt. He doesn’t say anything and she quirks an eyebrow. “What are you doing here?”

“What?”

Amusement tugs at the corners of his lips and he repeats the question, arms crossed over his chest. 

“Nothing.” 

“I don’t believe you.”

She regains her faculties, mirroring his pose. “I don’t care.” 

They make eye contact, neither wanting to be the first to look away. Clarke refuses to give him the satisfaction of backing down, so she takes a step closer, waits until someone calls his name and forces him to look elsewhere. She laughs a little under her breath and uses the opportunity to slip away.

He catches her again a few days later. 

“Lurking around my side of camp again, I see.”

Clarke rolls her eyes. “I wasn’t aware we had separate sides these days.”

He smirks, runs a hand through his sweaty curls and pushes them off his forehead. “You know what I mean.” She just shrugs. “You always come over here before you go to bed.” It’s not a question. 

“Have you been watching me?” she asks, defensive. 

“No, but I’m not _blind_. And I recall telling you once before that you’re not as sneaky as you think you are.” She blushes, clenching her jaw as she looks down at her boots. Does that mean - “You keep coming to my tent, but you never come inside.” 

She frowns. “How do you - ”

He takes a step closer, cutting her off. “The sun sets a lot later these days. I can see your silhouette through the tarp sometimes.”

“How do you know it’s me? It could be anyone.” 

It’s his turn to shrug. “I just do.”

She doesn’t question him, somehow understands. Had it been the other way around, she would have known it was Bellamy, too. There’s a beat of silence; it’s her out. 

She turns on her heel and starts to walk away, but his fingers quickly wrap around her wrist, gently tugging her back. Her eyes are fixed on the spot where he’s touching her, goosebumps rising on her skin despite the heat. He doesn’t let go, even when she’s standing right in front of him again. 

“Clarke.” His voice is softer than before, earnest. She doesn’t look at him. With his other hand, he puts a finger under her chin, tilts her face up so he can catch her eye. “Clarke,” he repeats, making sure he has her attention. “I’m not going anywhere.” Her breath catches, but she doesn’t say anything. “I’m here. I’m alive. And I intend on staying that way.” The corners of her lips quirk upward the tiniest bit. “You can stop checking up on me.”

She nods and starts to back away, her cheeks hot and her voice caught in her throat. He lets her go this time. When she’s a few feet away, though, she hears his voice again. “I’m flattered, though!” She rolls her eyes and shakes her head, flipping him off over her shoulder as she walks away. 

His laugh echoes in her head for the rest of the night. 

She doesn’t have any more nightmares.

\-- 

It’s almost dinner time when Finn finds her in the dropship.

“Hey. Is something wrong?” She starts scanning him for injuries instantly, but he shakes his head. 

“Can we talk?”

There’s a sinking feeling in her stomach; she’s pretty sure she knows where this is going and she just - she doesn’t wanna have this conversation with him again. Ever. She sighs, running a hand through her tangled hair and trying to figure out if she should avoid this conversation altogether. She could probably get away with faking sick or even pretending to faint again, but she knows he’d just come back again later. “Yeah, sure.” She motions to one of the seats they’d come down on, sitting next to him and keeping her gaze trained forward. “What’s up?”

He takes a moment to answer, angles his body so he’s facing her. She doesn’t do the same.

“We haven’t really talked since Bellamy and I came back.” She nods; that much is true. He spends most of his time with Raven - rightfully so - and his other friends and she… well, she’s all over the place. She’s been busy. “I’ve missed you.”

Clarke laughs once, looking around the dropship. “I haven’t gone anywhere.”

“But we don’t talk like we used to when we first got here.” 

“A lot has changed since we first came to the ground, Finn. _Everything_ has changed.” She looks at him pointedly. 

“My feelings haven’t.” She faces forward again, exhaling hard. 

“Finn, I - ”

“I’m still in love with you, Clarke. The whole time I was out in those woods with Bellamy,” he says the other man’s name like it’s an insult - it rubs her the wrong way, “I was thinking about you. No one else. Ever since I’ve been back, I’ve seen you around camp and it just - it hurts. Knowing that I’m not with you. That you don’t know how I feel. That I haven’t kissed you or touched you in so long.” His hand lands on her thigh and she flinches, shifting away from him. 

Her voice is quiet, tired. “I’m sorry. But I can’t do this.” 

She stands and he reaches for her wrist, tugging her back. She pulls it away from his grasp, frowning. “Is there someone else?” 

Bellamy’s face flashes in her mind, which - alright. It doesn’t make any sense, but she’s certainly not gonna tell Finn about it. “No. I’m just not interested in pursuing anything between us. My feelings have changed. Besides, we tried it once and it didn’t work; there’s no reason to make the same mistakes twice - it’ll just hurt the both of us in the end.” It’s harsh, but it’s the truth. 

His face falls and he nods, hair falling over his eyes when he looks at the floor. She resists the urge to apologize again - there’s nothing to be sorry for; she’s not going to apologize because she doesn’t have feelings for him anymore - and walks out of the dropship, eating dinner with Raven and Octavia like she always does.

If she looks at Bellamy more than usual, it’s only because he’s sitting directly across from her on the other side of the fire. 

It’s not because she’s wondering why she thought of him when Finn asked her if there was someone else. Not at all. 

(She wonders what it means when he’s almost always looking back, though.)

\-- 

There’s a bundle of wood to add to the fire in her arms when she hears her name. It’s not unusual for people to talk about her around camp. What makes it noticeable is the person saying it: Finn.

She slows her pace, keeps her gaze downcast as she approaches the center of camp. He’s sitting at the fire with a group of guys a little younger than him, talking about whatever it is teenage boys get up to when there are no girls around. 

“ - wasn’t nearly as good as Raven.” The other boys laugh; her face falls. “Seriously, she just…” He trails off, waving his hand as he searches for the right words. “Screwing her wasn’t even worth all the effort it took.” The smirk on his lips is full of malice and she wants to smack it off his face. “Not that it even took that much effort.” He laughs, shaking his head. “I never really thought Princess Clarke would be that easy.” 

He’s clearly bitter about the rejection, but hearing him talk about her like that - knowing that other people are listening - makes humiliation flare hot and heavy in her gut, anger forcing her cheeks to go red and her grip on the logs to tighten. There’s a splinter in her palm now, but she barely notices it. 

She refuses to give him the satisfaction of letting him know she’s embarrassed. So she walks past him, makes pointed eye contact and glares before setting the logs next to the fire. She takes her sweet time stoking the flames, adding another log when it gets high enough. 

Nodding to the boys as she passes them on the way back to her tent, she hears them break out into enthusiastic laughter behind her. Finn’s is louder than anyone else’s. Her hands clench into fists and she closes her eyes for the briefest of moments, swears under her breath as she retreats to her tent. 

She’s pissed for the rest of the night. 

When she sees Finn the next day, there’s an angry bruise coloring his eye and dried blood around his nose. Her eyes go wide as she approaches him, fingers reaching out and prodding at the marked skin. He flinches, at least having the decency to look sheepish. 

Maybe she gets a little thrill out of seeing him hurt. It’s petty and she’ll never admit it, but she’d wanted to hit him so badly all night - she’s a little glad someone else did it for her. 

“What the hell happened?” He’s always abhorred violence. It doesn’t make sense for him to have gotten in a fight. 

He glares over her shoulder, his expression darker than she’s ever seen it before. He scoffs, shaking his head. “Ask Bellamy.” 

She opens her mouth to respond, confusion evident on her face, but he’s already gone. 

When she turns to look at Bellamy, he quickly looks away from her, trying too hard to look busy. She narrows her eyes and walks up to him, arms crossed over her chest. “What did you do?” She wants to be angry, wants to yell at him because she can fight her own battles, but she’s a little thankful. She’s glad he did it. She doesn’t know _why_ he did it - surely it can’t be because of what Finn said; after all, how could he have heard it? But she’s grateful nonetheless. 

He feigns innocence. It’s unconvincing, to say the least. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, princess.”

She fixes him with a look. “Sure you don’t.”

He offers her a grin, his posture mimicking hers. 

Something on his hand catches her eye and she laughs, shaking her head as she reaches for his fingers. “Bruised knuckles,” she notes, looking from his fist to his face and back again.

He pulls his hand from her grip, shoves it deep into his pocket. “Scraped them against some wood earlier.” It’s obvious she doesn’t believe him. 

“More like Finn’s face.” The corners of his lips quirk upward; he can’t fight the triumphant look that colors his features for the briefest of moments. 

His shoulders rise and fall in a half-assed shrug. “You’ve got the wrong guy.” He moves to walk away but stops when he’s right beside her. She can feel his hot breath on her ear when he leans in. “I’m glad someone finally did it, though. I’ve been dying to punch that asshole since we got here.”

She can’t fight the smile that spreads across her face. When she looks up at him, he’s grinning down at her. He pokes the tip of her nose before he walks away; it’s the most casually affectionate touch he’s ever offered her and it makes something warm and pleasant settle in her chest. 

There’s no way to be sure, but she’s fairly certain that he’d been looking at her mouth.

\-- 

There hasn’t been a serious threat in a long time and going out on your own isn’t nearly as frowned upon as it had once been, but Miller (and probably almost everyone else) would be seriously pissed if he knew Clarke isn’t taking someone with her.

Being alone isn’t a luxury she’s gotten to enjoy in a long, long time and she just. She needs the time. To think. Regroup. 

Spring has been kind to them as of late - everything’s in bloom and she’s fairly certain she saw Octavia trailing a luminescent butterfly the other day - and she decides to look for some of the medicinal plants Nyko taught her about. Nobody’s really sick or hurt at the moment, but it can never hurt to be prepared. 

She thinks about everything. About Finn and why she hadn’t realized sooner that he has a mean streak when he feels wounded. About Octavia and how they’ve gotten closer in the last couple of weeks, how they can have a conversation without glaring or arguing and how the smiles come a little easier. About Lincoln and how he’s assimilated into their little family so easily. About Miller and the way he looks at Monty when he thinks nobody else is watching. (And about the fact that Monty clearly knows, considering the fact that the corners of his lips turn up slightly every single time.) 

About Bellamy.

That’s the most confusing one. It shouldn’t be, but it is. 

She thinks of the scars that cover his torso - and the fact that he’s never told her about them - and feels a pang in her gut. There’s probably always going to be guilt there, but that, too, is duller. She hasn’t sharpened the knife of her self-loathing in a while and it’s easier to pocket it when things are going this well.

And, okay, she hasn’t flirted with someone in a ridiculously long time. What she had with Finn can hardly be considered flirting, considering the fact that she spent the majority of their fleeting relationship telling him time and again that he had a girlfriend and she wouldn’t be complicit in his infidelity. She flirted with people on the ark all the time. It usually wasn’t that serious - dating wasn’t her top priority - but it was fun, easy. 

But it feels like a lifetime ago. She can barely remember what life was like on the ark. She knows the facts, of course, but the feelings associated with them have grown duller. The pain of losing her father will always be a torch she carries in her chest, but what burns bright in her mind is the ground: fear of death and destruction, affection for her friends, heartbreak over Wells’ death and the deaths of everyone else they’ve lost. 

She’s fairly certain, though, that Bellamy’s been flirting with her. They’ve been easy friends for months now. Things are stable. Bellamy’s smiles come easier and they’ve started reaching his eyes again. He laughs and jokes around with Miller, nags Octavia good-naturedly about whether she’s sleeping enough, hangs out with her almost every night before he goes on watch. There’s a routine. 

But he treats her differently. He looks at her differently. And when he’d poked the tip of her nose and smiled at her, she’d _felt_ differently, too. 

Before she can get too caught up in her introspection, she’s suddenly losing her footing. She hasn’t been paying as close attention to the terrain as she should be and a dip in the ground has her ankle rolling painfully, stealing her balance. When she hits the ground, there’s a rock under her head and the blow has her crying out. She allows herself a moment to mope about how undeniably _shitty_ this is (and how literally everyone will berate her for leaving camp in the first place) before moving. She sits up slowly, fingers reaching up to assess the damage near her hairline. There’s blood - not a ton, but enough to make her groan and lift her shirt to wipe it off. It probably just smears, but it’s not like there are mirrors on the ground. 

She struggles to her feet and winces. Putting weight on her ankle sends a sharp pain reverberating up her shin. Limping back to camp is going to be tedious, to say the least. 

It takes her close to two hours and she complains about it under her breath the whole time. Sweat is mixing with the blood on her face and she’s so, _so_ exhausted.

Harper fusses over her after she opens the gate, asking her worriedly about what happened, but she doesn’t even get the chance to respond. Bellamy’s pacing just behind Harper and the second he sees Clarke, he’s rushing her, sliding between her and Harper. His hands find her face and he’s turning her head side to side, surveying her injuries. When he’s convinced that she’s not dying, his hands find his hips and he full-on glares at her. She hasn’t seen an expression that intense on his face since the beginning. 

“What the _hell_ were you thinking?” 

She can’t help it; she gets defensive. Whenever anyone questions her actions or even hints that they can control her, her hands clench into fists and her need to prove her independence flares. “I went for a _walk_.” She holds up the bag of herbs she’d collected. “To get these.”

He shakes his head, disbelief coloring his features. “You could have been killed.”

“Relax,” she murmurs, her temper dissipating a little. “I just… fell.”

He reaches for her wrist without a word and starts to drag her in the direction of her tent. She yelps, wrenching her hand out of his grip and shifting all her weight to her good ankle. 

“Shit. Sorry.” 

Her guard is still up, so she glares a little when she tells him it’s okay. 

“Do you want - I can carry you back to your tent if you can’t walk.” 

She rolls her eyes. “I walked the whole way back, Bellamy.” A grin teases at the corners of his mouth and she just huffs, pushing past him and limping to her tent. He lets her lead the way, deliberately walking slower behind her. 

She lets out a sigh of relief when she collapses onto her bed. Bellamy follows and sits next to her. He reaches for the strip of cloth she puts on the back of her neck when it gets too warm and wets it in the makeshift bowl of water she keeps in her tent. When he places his fingers under her chin and turns her face so she’s looking at him, she doesn’t fight him. He’s frowning, careful not to hurt her when he presses it against her face and wipes at the dried blood. 

His eyes are fixed on the gash on her forehead, but she’s busy staring at his face. He looks so concerned, his hands shaking slightly when he dips the rag back into the bowl and the water starts to turn red. “You scared the shit out of me,” he murmurs and, God, that has her gaze darting from his mouth to his eyes. 

“Bellamy.” It comes out fonder than she expects it to. “I’m fine.”

“I know.” He looks her in the eye then and she can’t help but think about how much it means that he’s taking her word for it this time. “But I came here to see what you had planned for the day and you were just _gone_. Nobody knew where you were. And then you didn’t come back for hours and I just… expected the worst, I guess.” He’s finished washing her face, but he’s still staring at her. “Don’t do it again. Please.”

She doesn’t hesitate to nod and, satisfied, he gets up. She’s just about to ask him where he’s going, taken aback by his sudden exit, when he kneels down in front of her. “What are you - ”

“I have to make sure it’s not broken.” He cuts her off, rolling up the leg of her jeans and gingerly pulling off her boot. She knows for a fact that it’s not, but she lets him check anyway. 

He takes her sock off and wraps his fingers around her ankle, slowly rotating her foot. She hisses a little and he murmurs an apology, his hands lingering on her skin longer than is medically necessary. 

She doesn’t exactly mind it. Bellamy has nice hands. 

Not to mention the fact that his hands on her skin have her burning up, that unmistakably fluttery sensation in her stomach going wild. She’s had boyfriends and girlfriends before, but it never felt like this. Her skin tingles where he’s touched her, her face feels hot, it’s suddenly hard to swallow. And, fuck, it’s all starting to make sense. 

She’s never been good at acknowledging her own feelings. She bottles things up; its just who she is. But apparently the honest concern on Bellamy’s face paired with his calloused fingertips gently taking care of her makes that particular bottle shatter in her chest, unleashing a Pandora’s Box of feelings she’s ill-equipped to deal with. 

“Looks like a sprain,” he concludes, rocking back onto his heels. 

She nods. “Yeah.” Her voice very nearly gets caught in her throat. 

Before he can get up and walk away (and before she loses her nerve), she leans forward and inches her face closer to his, testing the waters. His eyes dart down to her mouth for the briefest of moments, his tongue swiping along his lower lip. It nearly makes her groan. She swallows hard and closes the distance between them, gently pressing her lips against his. 

He doesn’t kiss her back. 

The fluttery feeling dissipates and is quickly replaced by humiliation, the rejection making her nauseous. She pulls away and looks anywhere but at Bellamy. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have - ”

He cuts her off, his mouth pressing against hers far more insistently. His hands find the sides of her face, his thumbs tracing her cheekbones. She grips his shirt like she’s afraid he’s gonna disappear, like she needs to root herself in reality and make sure this is actually happening. 

He presses her back a little and she lies down with him. Everything’s moving so quickly; they’re frantic, too scared the opportunity’s gonna pass before they get everything they need from each other, before they say the things with their mouths that they’re too afraid to say out loud. 

She pulls away to catch her breath, but Bellamy pulls a gasp from her throat when he tongues at her neck, teeth barely scraping against her pulse point. Her hands dip under his shirt and he pulls away.

“Why are you stopping?” She’s breathless when she sits up and leans back onto her elbows, her eyes searching his face. His lips are slightly swollen and his chest is heaving, but he won’t look at her, his eyes downcast. “Bellamy?”

He swallows hard; she watches the way his Adam’s apple bobs with the effort of it. “You, uh. You need to rest.” He climbs off her and runs a hand through his tousled hair - that had been her doing, she’s sure of it - glancing at her one last time before he slips out of her tent, disappearing just like that. 

She collapses back down onto her bed, confused and more than a little frustrated. 

It isn’t until she’s tossing and turning hours later that she finally figures it out. 

He hadn’t wanted her to touch the scars marring his torso. The scars she’d put there when she’d closed the dropship door. 

She doesn’t sleep much that night.

\-- 

They don’t talk about it.

The one constant in the days that follow is the fact that she and Bellamy do not discuss the fact that they kissed, that he’d pulled away without any explanation, that he’d left her breathless and confused in her bed. 

When she’d seen him the next morning and offered him a grin, she decided she would wait for him to bring it up. She wasn’t gonna push him. 

But he doesn’t bring it up. 

They talk about normal camp business like the guard schedule and who’s going out hunting and when and if things are a little tense between them, nobody else seems to notice. 

She throws herself into another project. It’s what she does when things get complicated. Instead of sitting with Bellamy by the fire after dinner, she pulls Miller and Raven aside. 

“I have a proposition for you guys.”

“No, we won’t have a threesome with you.” There’s a clear smirk on Raven’s face and Miller just grins and shakes his head. 

Clarke rolls her eyes. “I know Miller wouldn’t, but we both know that you’d at least consider one,” she teases, quirking a challenging eyebrow at the other girl. Raven laughs a little, but she doesn’t disagree. “But that’s obviously not what I’m here to ask you guys about.”

“What is it?” Miller asks.

“What do you guys think about building something more… permanent?” 

There’s a crinkle in Miller’s brow, his arms crossed over his chest. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that winter was brutal. For all of us.” They both nod their assent, faces falling for a moment as they remember the dead, the bodies they’d had to burn. “I think it would be better if we had, like, _actual_ structures. Not tents. The grounders aren’t a threat to us anymore; there’s no enemy holding us back. We should make a real settlement instead of relying on the dropship as our only stable shelter. And a cabin will be a hell of a lot warmer than a tent.”

“What kind of structures are we talking about here?”

“Cabins. Actual buildings. We could still use the dropship as the clinic, but we need a mess hall, maybe - a gathering place in case we need to hold meetings. And a bigger smokehouse and somewhere to store the rest of our food. We’re in the middle of a forest; there’s plenty of wood. I figure with Raven’s knowledge of engineering - Monty’s, too - we can make things that won’t fall apart during a storm.” She looks between the two of them, biting down on her bottom lip as she takes in their expressions. Incidentally, they’re both impossible to read. “What do you think?”

“I think it sounds like a lot of work,” Miller murmurs. “But it also sounds feasible. We could start off with the bare minimum, put a few people in each cabin until we’re sure it works and then we can build more.”

Raven nods. “We all know the tents aren’t gonna last forever. We’ve already lost them once.”

“Exactly.”

“What does Bellamy think about all of this?” Miller asks, no doubt wondering why she’d been the one to come to him.

She shrugs a shoulder. “I don’t know. I haven’t asked him yet.” She doesn’t really have any intention to, either. At least not until they have a solid foundation she can go to him with. Raven quirks an eyebrow, but she doesn’t say anything. Miller just shakes his head; he’s never been the kind of guy that gets involved in the camp drama. “We’ll start planning tomorrow morning, okay? Come find me when you guys get up.” 

She retreats to her tent before either of them can say anything else, suddenly exhausted. 

If she doesn’t really talk to Bellamy for a few days after that, it’s because the both of them are just… busy. She can’t help but notice that he’s taken on even more shifts guarding the wall and she’s been popping in and out of tents with Raven and Miller, making plans and drawing up blueprints, figuring out what it is exactly that they’ll need and how long it’ll take to make each structure. And then there’s figuring out what to build first and who goes in which cabin. It’s all very time-consuming, and if she obsesses over it more than is entirely necessary, Raven and Miller certainly don’t point it out. 

She knows, too, that Miller has probably told Bellamy what it is that they’ve been doing. It’s fine; it’s not like it’s a secret. 

She’s just collapsed on her bed, bent at the waist and unlacing her boots, when someone bursts into her tent far more aggressively than is totally necessary. “What - ”

Bellamy cuts her off. “Why are you avoiding me?”

It would be easy to laugh at a statement as ridiculous as that one. “Seriously?”

He nods, clearly angry. The muscle in his jaw ticks and his hands are on his waist, his body language screaming irritation. “If anything, _you’re_ the one avoiding _me_.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Oh, please,” she starts, kicking her boots off the rest of the way and standing to face him head-on. “Like I haven’t noticed that you jump at every opportunity to go out hunting or pick up another shift standing watch.” 

He swallows hard, knows he’s been caught. But he comes back at her just as fiercely and just as quickly. “Yeah, and you’ve been talking to Miller and Raven about building cabins every chance you get. I mean, Jesus, Clarke, you didn’t even consult me!”

She raises her eyebrows. “I wasn’t aware I had to ask your permission.”

He fixes her with a look that lets her know how ridiculous she’s being. “You know that’s not what I meant. We’re co-leaders. That means we do things together. Y’know, like eating dinner by the fire like we used to. Or planning guard schedules and hunting trips. Or, I don’t know, deciding whether or not to build fucking cabins in our camp!” His voice gets louder with each statement and she knows he’s right, but, God, she’s so frustrated and angry and _hurt_ by what happened between them that she can’t help but fight back. 

“What, do you think cabins are a bad idea?”

“That’s not important.”

“Then what’s the whole point of this conversation, Bellamy?” 

Without even noticing, they’ve inched closer to each other, practically standing toe-to-toe. She has to look up to see his eyes and he’s looking right back at her, his expression intense and inscrutable. 

“The whole point of this conversation, _Clarke_ , is that you’ve been avoiding me and I’d like it to stop.”

“Well, you’ll have to stop avoiding me first.” She knows she sounds like a petulant child, but.

“Seriously? Act your age.”

“I could say the same to you. I mean, I didn’t think guys your age usually got up and ran away when they started making out with someone, but - ” She knows it’s a low blow, but he cuts her off before she can even finish her thought. 

“Just shut up.” 

“Don’t tell me to sh - ” She’s trying to yell at him, but he closes the distance between them and then he’s kissing her, hard and angry. 

There’s no resistance, no hesitation; she’s kissing him back just as hard and just as eager. It’s messy, all teeth and tongues and trying to one-up each other. He backs her up against the table Raven had helped her build and she grunts a little when the wood hits the spot where her thighs meet her ass, solid and sudden. His hands find the backs of her thighs and then he’s lifting her up, her legs wrapping around his waist when he sets her down on the edge of the table. 

When he pulls away, his lips are kiss-swollen and his eyes are dark. He’s searching her face for any signs of hesitation, but she doesn’t feel like reassuring him right now, just reaches down and pulls off her shirt, shoving her hair back when it falls in her face. He groans and peppers kisses down her neck and across her collarbone, teeth scraping at the tops of her breasts. Her head falls back and her eyes flutter shut, fingers tangling in his hair. She knows he’s biting down so hard that he’s gonna leave a mark, that it’s meant to be some sort of punishment for being so frustrating or to act as a reminder of this whole thing - as if she could ever forget - but it’s hard to consider this an admonishment when she’s enjoying it so much, when she’s already so wet for him.

She reaches behind her and unclasps her bra, lets him pull it off while she lifts the hem of his shirt. She knows that this is the moment of truth; he’s either going to pull away again or he’s going to let her see what she already knows is there. There’s a split second of hesitation - if she wouldn’t have been looking for it, she wouldn’t have even noticed - and then his shirt joins hers on the floor.

It’s not the time to bring it up, so she just presses her fingertips hard into the small of his back, pulling him as close as possible while he tongues at her nipples. They’re not even naked yet and it’s so good, better than she ever could have imagined it. 

She can feel him hot and hard against her stomach and when she mutters his name and reaches for the button of his jeans, he nods and murmurs a rough and gravelly _I know_ against her chest, presses an open-mouthed kiss against her skin and helps her out. She pushes his pants and his underwear as far down as she can before she reaches for her own zipper. He swats her hand away and makes quick work of it himself and suddenly they’re both naked. 

She wants to take her time with him, of course, wants to know how his mouth feels between her thighs and how he tastes on her tongue, but they have plenty of time for that later on. Right now, all she really wants is for him to be inside of her, to hit that spot that nobody’s hit in an exorbitantly long time. 

So when he picks her up again and sets her down on her bed, she can’t help the fact that her thighs spread instinctively, that she pulls him closer so that he can settle between them. He bites down on her bottom lip and tugs a little, pulling a moan from deep in her chest. 

“As much as I wanna hear you right now, it’s probably best the whole camp doesn’t hear me fucking you.”

She laughs a little breathlessly, fingers digging into his ass. “You’re not even fucking me yet.”

He doesn’t say anything, but there’s a dirty smirk on his lips when he lines up and presses into her. He goes slow at first, watches her face and lets her adjust. Even when they’re caught up in the moment and desperate for each other, he’s determined not to hurt her. 

He bottoms out inside of her, pressed as close as two people can possibly be, and she can’t resist the urge to kiss him, to tangle her fingers in his hair and really kiss him. It’s softer and slower than the rest of their kisses, but it’s somehow a million times more intense. It makes something warm and meaningful uncurl in her stomach.

“Move,” she mumbles against his mouth. When he doesn’t do what she tells him to, she takes matters into her own hands, rolls her hips up against him. His hand presses down hard on her hip, holds her tight against the blanket so she can’t move. She bites down on his shoulder in retaliation, leaving a mark. It pulls a hiss from his mouth and makes him pull out just enough to snap his hips forward so hard that it pushes her higher up on the bed. 

It’s hard and rough and fast and everything she needs, everything she thinks she deserves when it comes to this, when it comes to Bellamy. 

She wraps her legs around his waist, presses her heels into his ass and keens when he buries his face in her neck. She can feel his hot breath fanning out against her skin. He changes the angle of his thrusts and it drives her crazy, makes forming coherent thoughts near impossible. All she can focus on is Bellamy: Bellamy’s hand palming her breast, Bellamy’s hair brushing against her face, every inch of Bellamy pressed against every inch of her. The crazy world they’ve come to live in narrows and focuses on him. He’s everywhere.

He became a fixture in her life a long time ago; this shouldn’t come as a surprise. 

His thrusts are growing shallower, his rhythm losing a little of it’s consistency, and she knows he’s getting close. She’s been teetering on the edge for a while now, fighting off her orgasm so they can tumble over the edge together. When he rubs tight circles against her clit, she’s done for, fingernails pressing into his skin and trailing down his back. He says her name when he comes, says it like a breathless prayer against her skin.

It takes a moment for the both of them to catch their breaths and when they do, he pulls out and collapses onto the bed next to her. They stay on their backs, eyes fixed on the ceiling of her tent, chests heaving and minds thinking entirely too much. 

“Clarke.” She swallows hard before she turns to look at him, vulnerable and expressive despite her best efforts to the contrary. He kisses the corner of her mouth and tugs her closer, closes his eyes and gets comfortable. 

“So you’re spending the night, huh?”

A smile tugs at his mouth, but he just nods, fingers trailing up and down her side lazily. “Yup.”

She grins. “Okay.”

\--

When she wakes up, there’s light filtering in through the plastic tarp that forms her tent. She arches her back and hums a little, a smile on her face as she replays everything that happened the night before. Her eyes flutter open and there’s Bellamy, head propped up on his hand as he watches her. “How long have you been up?”

“A while.”

She turns her head to face him, more relaxed than she has been in a long time, probably since they first got to Earth. He’s toying with the ends of her hair, eyes fixed on her face. She quirks an eyebrow. “Were you watching me sleep?”

He closes the distance between them and presses a chaste kiss to her lips. “You make it sound so creepy,” he protests as he pulls away. 

“That’s because it _is_ creepy.” 

“No, it’s romantic.”

“Who knew Bellamy Blake is a romantic at heart?”

He rolls his eyes. “Whatever,” he grumbles. 

She laughs, rolling onto her side and mimicking his position, fingers itching to touch him. “Don’t worry - I won’t ruin your reputation.”

He shrugs a shoulder. “I wouldn’t mind if you did.” He looks fond and it makes it harder for her to swallow, the intensity of the whole thing overwhelming her. 

The urge to touch him, to feel his warm skin underneath her fingertips, becomes too much, so she closes the tiny distance between them and kisses him. It’s soft and languid, nothing like the kisses they shared last night but somehow just as good. She doesn’t think she’ll ever get sick of kissing him. Her hand trails down his neck, fingertips dancing across his chest and inching lower, tracing the outlines of his abdominal muscles as she goes. When she’s just about to reach the scar that wraps around his torso, he grabs her wrist, stopping her. She pulls away and rests her forehead against his, breathing out his name. 

He doesn’t respond, but he doesn’t let go of her wrist either, his thumb brushing up and down against the tender skin. He can probably feel the way her pulse jumps whenever he looks at her with that expression on his face, so vulnerable and open that it makes her feel sick with the responsibility of it. 

She doesn’t wanna hurt him again.

“I’m so sorry,” she murmurs, barely above a whisper. 

“Don’t be.” He tries to coax her into another kiss, but she turns her head, his lips pressing against her cheek instead. When he sighs, he just sounds tired. “I don’t blame you.”

“I do. Probably enough for the both of us.”

He tilts her face so they can make eye contact, his gaze strong and unwavering. “You need to stop this.” She furrows her brow, so he continues. “Stop blaming yourself for everything that goes wrong. Stop being a martyr. You closed the dropship door months ago. I forgave you before I even got back to camp; it was the right call. We both have scars. Everyone does, especially since we got to the ground. Okay? It’s not your fault. You don’t have anything to feel guilty about anymore.”

She nods, her eyes watery. She looks toward the ceiling, wills the tears that are gathering in her eyes not to fall. “Yeah, okay.”

“You need to forgive yourself, Clarke.”

And then Raven’s barging into her tent, starts saying something about how she and Monty have finally finished the blueprints for the cabins. She trails off when she sees the two of them in bed together, a smile tugging at her lips. “I knew it.”

“Raven, get out.” 

She shakes her head, but turns and pulls back the flap of her tent, laughing to herself. She glances over her shoulder one last time. “Miller’s looking for you.” Just as quickly as she arrived, she’s gone. 

Bellamy swears under his breath as he climbs out from under the blankets and gets dressed. Clarke knows she should probably follow suit, but she’s enjoying openly ogling him as he puts his clothes back on. It’s a great view. 

He presses a quick kiss to her forehead before he leaves, already incredulously asking Sterling why Jasper’s the only one on watch.

\-- 

She has to actively fight to keep the stupid smile off her face all day. Raven keeps shooting her knowing looks across camp, but Clarke does everything in her power to act like she doesn’t see them and that they don’t make her blush, barely succeeding.

A part of her wonders if there’s ever going to be a repeat performance or if what happened the night before was a one-time thing. She knows what she wants, but they didn’t exactly have that conversation before he left her tent. 

Any doubts she harbors quickly disappear as the day goes on, though. Every time she sees Bellamy, he offers her a smile that feels like a secret only she’s in on. If they’re in the same place at the same time, he’s all casual touches - a hand brushing against the small of her back as he passes behind her or resting on her thigh as they sit and talk about beginning construction on their first cabin.

She’s been looking forward to lunch all day, can smell the venison cooking all the way across camp. But just when she’s about to leave the dropship and take her share, Monroe comes in with a cut that needs stitches thanks to a rookie hunting accident. She has to sterilize it with moonshine before she gets started and mourns the loss of her favorite meal, wonders if there’s even going to be any left by the time she’s finished.

It doesn’t take her very long, but by the time Monroe’s offering her thanks and leaving to meet up with Sterling and Harper, Bellamy’s coming into the dropship holding something behind his back.

“You look awfully satisfied with yourself,” she observes.

He grins. “S’because I brought you a present.”

“Oh?”

He pulls a piece of venison on a stick from behind his back. Her eyes go wide as she takes it from him, immediately taking a healthy sized bite. She and Bellamy had woken up too late to get breakfast and she’s worked up quite an appetite. 

They both hear Jasper calling Bellamy’s name and he pinches the bridge of his nose, sighing. “He’s gonna be the death of me. One of these days…” He trails off and she can’t help but laugh. “I gotta go. I’ll see you later.” She nods and he kisses her on the cheek before jogging across camp.

It’s gotten so domestic and easy so quickly, but she can’t even muster up the energy to freak out about it or ask if it’s happening too fast. It feels like an obvious extension of the relationship that was already there; they’ve just added sex to the equation.

Bellamy’s certainly not shy about it either, doesn’t even bother hiding the hand resting on her knee while they eat dinner. She can feel people looking at them, hears more than one person whispering behind their backs, but it doesn’t bother her as much as it would have six months ago. 

He spends the night in her tent again and they don’t even have sex, are way too tired to muster up the energy. So they just sleep next to one another, his chest pressed against her back, and it’s the best night’s sleep she’s gotten in a long time.

\--

Neither of them feels the need to have a conversation about exclusivity or choosing a label for their relationship. It’s easy; they’re it for each other. She knows that there’s nobody else she’d rather be with and he’s made that pretty clear, too.

She’s had flings before - people would be surprised to hear about some of the stuff she got up to on the Ark - but she knows that what she has with Bellamy is different. 

Before, she could always see an expiration date. There was always something that would lead to the end of whatever relationship she had at the time, and there was nothing wrong with that. She’d always been pragmatic; “forever” isn’t exactly the most reliable concept in the world and she was very aware of that fact. 

But when she’s with Bellamy, she can’t imagine them ever _not_ being together. It’s scary and exhilarating and cheesy - and she loves every minute of it. 

There’s no big announcement around camp, either, but everyone seems to know. 

After months of them coming out of each other’s tents in the morning, their relationship has become common knowledge among the delinquents, which means they have to deal with good-natured teasing from Raven and the occasional wolf whistle from Jasper when they kiss.

He still jumps at every opportunity to touch her, whether that means he tugs on her braid when he comes up behind her or presses a kiss to her cheek before heading off to supervise the construction efforts. She brings him water and a snack when he’s chopping wood, and he brings her lunch in the dropship when things get hectic. With so many people working on building the cabins, there’s at least one injury a day for her to deal with, sometimes more. She feels like a mother, always exasperated that her kids aren’t being more careful or that they’re not drinking enough water in the thick summer heat. She’s just thankful the temperature has started to go down; fall is on its way. 

Clarke rubs her palm across her forehead, mouth turned down as she paces the length of the wall. “There’s no way we’re gonna be done in time for winter.”

Bellamy sighs. “I know.”

“We should have planned better, worked harder. Now there’s not enough cabins for everyone and we haven’t even started on building a mess hall. The smokehouse is still too small - and where are we supposed to store the rest of the food we’re gathering before the ground freezes?”

He’s sitting with his back against the wall, legs stretched in front of him as he eats a handful of berries, his gaze following her as she paces back and forth. “I don’t know, Clarke. There’s plenty of room in the dropship,” he suggests.

She fixes him with a look. “With winter coming, I’m gonna need as much space as possible on the first level for the clinic. People are gonna get sick and there’s probably gonna be at least a couple cases of frostbite despite the furs and the cabins. And how many people do you think are gonna fall on the ice this year and break their wrists? There were three last year, Bellamy - _three_.” 

He holds his hands up in mock surrender, doing his best not to grin. It’s always amusing to him when she gets worked up like this, but it only fuels her annoyance when he laughs at her. “It was just a suggestion.”

“I know, I’m just - ”

“Worried,” he finishes for her, wiping his palms on the front of his pants before standing up. “We’ll get by. We always do. We’ll put the youngest and the smallest in the cabins first since they’ll need more help staying warm. They’ll be sleeping closer together, so they can share their furs and huddle together. You and I will stay in our tent and everyone else who doesn’t fit in a cabin can sleep on the second level of the dropship when the worst of it comes. Okay?”

She sighs and offers him a nod. 

He stands in front of her, a grin playing at the corners of his lips when he tucks a piece of her hair behind her ear. “I love you, but you need to relax.”

Her eyes go a little wide and her heart threatens to beat right out of her chest - they’ve never said those words to each other before. He doesn’t even look like this is a big moment, just holds her hand and strokes his thumb across her knuckles. She swallows hard. “You love me?”

He looks at her like she just asked the most ridiculous question in the world. “Of course I do.”

She pulls her hand from his grasp so she can wrap her arms around his neck and kiss him with everything she’s got. When she pulls back, she rests her forehead against his, keeps her eyes closed. Her face feels warm despite the chill in the air. “I love you, too.”

He chuckles and shakes his head. “Yeah, I know.”

\--

Getting through winter isn’t _easy_ , exactly, but it’s a lot better than the year before. The flu passes through camp again, but Clarke’s better equipped this year, remembers the advice Nyko had given her. No one dies, for which she’s eternally grateful. (Thankfully, only one person slips on the ice and breaks their wrist, and it was totally Jasper’s own fault for running through the woods like that.)

Spring brings the return of warmer temperatures and high spirits, and they start building again.

Summer comes early. The heat is overwhelming, the air so thick it makes it harder to breathe. 

But they finally finish construction when the sun starts to set earlier and earlier, Bellamy and Miller putting the final touches on the last of the cabins just as storm clouds start to form overhead. 

When Bellamy and Clarke finally finish moving their things into the last cabin - it’s not like there are a lot of them, but they may have gotten distracted once or twice - he insists on picking her up and carrying her over the threshold. 

“Bellamy, this is ridiculous. I’m perfectly capable of walking into my own cabin.”

“ _Our_ cabin,” he corrects, an easy smile on his face. 

“Our cabin,” she agrees.

He doesn’t put her down. “It’s tradition.”

“What tradition?”

“People did it before the bombs dropped. I read about it in a book. After the wedding ceremony, the groom carries the bride over the threshold into their bedroom.”

She raises her eyebrows, tilting her head and trying not to smirk. “So we’re married now?”

His cheeks go pink, which is always endlessly amusing for her. “I mean… pretty much.”

He’s right. They’ve been together for over a year, have slept in the same bed every night and taken care of the rest of the kids in camp as if they were their parents. “Clarke Blake,” she muses, wrinkling her nose at the sound of it. “I’m keeping my last name.”

Bellamy just laughs, finally carrying her into their cabin and laying her down on their bed. He settles between her thighs and kisses her, slow and deep. 

“Deal.”

**Author's Note:**

> I've never written anything this long before and I'm so excited to finally share it with all of you. I'd love to hear your thoughts on how it turned out!
> 
> As always, you can find me (and this fic) on tumblr @ boobmorleys. 
> 
> Comments & kudos are greatly appreciated and treasured for the rest of my days. <3


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